Virtual Sea Kayaking? With virtual reality making headway in everything from laser tag to video games, it was only a matter of time until it made an appearance in paddling. Sea kayakers who don't want to get wet can now explore Washington's Puget Sound through the $14.2 million Odyssey Maritime Discovery Center on the Seattle waterfront. Designed to celebrate Puget Sound's unique environment and marine character of the Pacific Northwest, the 30,000-square-foot center has 43 exhibits, half of which are interactive. Virtual exhibits in the center's Waterlink Gallery include At the Helm, allowing visitors to stand on a simulated freighter helm and navigate a ship through Elliott Bay; Craneworks, where visitors can load containers onto a ship; and Kayak Journey, where aspiring paddlers can crawl inside the cockpit of a Pursuit kayak by Redmond, Wash.'s Northwest Kayaks and take a simulated paddle through the inlets of Puget Sound. Virtual paddlers can select one of several locations to "tour," each depicting a different part of the Cascadia Marine Trail. As virtual visitors paddle, each stroke breaks an infrared beam, which signals to the computer that the kayak is "moving" either straight ahead, to the right or to the left. The experience lasts about four minutes. "It's incredibly real feeling," says Odyssey's Jenny Holladay. "It makes you feel like you're actually paddling." The only thing designers could have done to make it more realistic is have users sit in a puddle of water. For more information, call (206) 374-4001. --edb

Rowing Jockeys

Rowers are used to jockeying for position. Five members of the U.S. National Rowing Team are now getting used to wearing Jockeys as well. In April, underwear giant Jockey International unveiled a new TV and print media advertising campaign starring five members of the U.S. National Rowing Team. The commercials show the rowers adorned in the latest underwear fashions, wearing their uniforms only from the waist up. To determine what kind of underwear best fit each crew member, the five rowers were given several different types to model in front of a 10-person Jockey judge panel. "It wasn't too bad," says Kurt Borcherding, 31, one of the five rowers who made it through the screening process to prance around in briefs with his fellow boaters. "We all know each other pretty well. Anyway, wearing underwear isn't much different than what we usually wear when we're rowing." The TV commercials are slated to air on such programs as Larry King Live and ESPN's SportsCenter, with print ads scheduled for GQ, Esquire, Sports Illustrated and Rolling Stone.

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--Stormy Colman

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--Joe Carberry

Part of an elaborate ancient Mayan trading network, in more modern times the Belize River served as the primary route between logging settlements inland and the shipping port at Belize City. In those days, Belizeans had no trouble identifying such landmarks as Blackman Eddy, Never Delay and Doublehead Cabbage. The advent of airplanes, automobiles and paved roads, however, offered quicker and easier access between the coast and the interior, effectively submerging into memory the history, community and folklore of the 175-mile-long waterway.

The start of the longest canoe race in Central America takes place in the fog-shrouded, pre-dawn light under the cacophonous Hawksworth Bridge spanning the Macal River at San Ignacio. Paddling furiously from the start, it's a short sprint to Branch Mouth, where the Macal teams with the Mopan River to officially spawn the Belize River. As the race is held during dry season, portaging is necessary at one or two shallows in the opening miles but for the most part, racers paddle down placid waters with a smattering of Class I cobble-bar rapids. The first night's rest takes place in a star-studded clearing at Banana Bank Lodge, a plush eco-resort enveloped in 4,000 acres of primary growth rain forest. To guarantee a jaguar sighting, simply visit Tika, the lodge's pet "cat."

The second day, and longest leg of the race, is a mind-warping test of determination lasting anywhere from eight to 13 grueling hours. It includes the most daunting navigational challenge of the race, a genuine Class II encounter at Big Falls. As nightfall approaches, an unnervingly loud roar can be heard among the treetops at Bermudian Landing, the unofficial capital of the Community Baboon Sanctuary. A decade ago, local farmers voluntarily agreed to a land management plan that has successfully rejuvenated the endangered black howler monkey population, known here as baboons.

With live radio broadcasts throughout the race, the Belize River Challenge attracts the attention of the entire country. Bridges are thronged with well-wishers throwing flower petals, refreshments and encouragement to the sun-parched racers, some of whom are friends or relations. At overnight stops at Bermudian Landing and Burrel Boom, neighbors sit in lawn chairs, catching up on gossip, reviving old river tales, until a youngster's voice cries out the sighting of the next boat and everyone rises to their feet to cheer the arrival of the weary paddlers.

Mostly deeper, slower water characterizes the third but much shorter leg of the race, and the final day finishes up with a relatively short burst down the final stretch to Haulover Creek, a mangrove-cloaked passageway that emerges in the belly of Belize City. The canoe race concludes on Baron Bliss Day, a national holiday and regatta honoring Belize's benevolent hero. This year, the newest national heroes are the three brothers Palermo, Teodolfo and Julio Hob of tiny Bullet Tree Falls, near the Guatemalan border. The humble trio closed out the Belize River Challenge in 23:50:58; 22 minutes ahead of the second-place team and nearly 14 hours ahead of the last canoe. In so doing, they picked up cash prizes totaling nearly a year's wages. "We just entered the race to see how the river flows, what it looks like and whether we could make it to Belize City," Palermo told a radio reporter after the race. "We couldn't figure out why no one else was keeping up with us." Perhaps the team of archaeologists excavating a large Mayan center near the brothers' hometown, and racing along with them, has the answer: "Every morning during the race they would pull on their little black gloves while we would all pull on our blisters."

--For information on next year's race, contact La Ruta Maya Belize River Challenge, C/O Cayo Tropical Fruits, 35 Buena Vista St., San Ignacio, Cayo, Belize; 011-501-92-2646 (phone); 011-501-92-3075 (fax); bighjuices@btl.net

--Lee Hart

On May 1, 1998, dozens of kayakers converged on Washington's Lewis River drainage for the beginning of a three-day paddlefest that included the Canyon Creek Rodeo, the Canyon Creek Extreme Race and the Bob's Hole Rodeo (on Oregon's Clackamas River). Unfortunately, low water turned Canyon Creek's popular playhole-the Wheel-into little more than a wet gravel pit. Event organizers saw the low water coming, however, and combining the best of rodeo with the best of creek-boating, they diverted competitors to Sunset Falls, a picturesque 15-foot waterfall nestled in the upper reaches of the East Fork Lewis River. There, an event was kicked off that likely had no predecessor anywhere...a waterfall rodeo.

For the first time ever, kayakers were judged on their ability to pull off rock spins, waterwheels...and even jump out of their boats in mid-flight. Stressing that kids shouldn't try such antics at home, judging started by simply giving points given for technical merit. By the end of the festivities, however, it became clear that style carried more clout. Erin Miller, an up-and-coming boater from Portland, Ore., took the Women's Division by juggling as she flew off the falls. "I forgot to account for the drop when I started juggling," she says, "but I guess the judges liked it anyway." Jamie Simon, the third-place finisher in the Women's Division and current holder of the women's waterfall height record, found the event to be a natural. "A lot of people are running waterfalls for fun," she says. "So, why not have a competition on one?"

As if the waterfall rodeo weren't enough, after the event competitors were able to paddle a few minutes downstream to the homestead of Mike Olsen, one of the East Fork's best known paddlers, for an evening of food, bluegrass music and beverages--all of which were as free-flowing as the water going over the contest sight.

--Jeff Bennett

This year's pool slalom, capable of being set up on any body of flatwater, consisted of a 21-gate slalom course made up of five sets of pre-configured gates. The only requirements were that gates were five feet apart and six inches off the water, and could be no closer than five feet from the edge of a pool. "It's a great way to gauge the progress of developing slalom athletes," says Dickert, who competed in the 1996 Olympics on Tennessee's Ocoee River. "Since it's standardized, there are no intervening variables. You can set it up anywhere and give people a barometer of how they measure up against other paddlers."

Participants were given a course description sheet providing specific details and diagrams on how to set up the course, as well as standardized rules and regulations regarding scoring and penalties. Results were then tabulated by the hosting paddling club or organization and sent into USCKT headquarters in Lake Placid, N.Y., for tabulation. The person with the best score for a single run was then declared Pool Slalom National Champion in his or her respective division, with medals awarded to the top three finishers in each category. In K-1 men, it was 1992 Olympian Eric Jackson taking first, with Sebastian Zimmer winning K-1 Junior; Jon Nelson winning K-1 Master; Megan Stalheim winning K-1 Wome; and Aleta Miller winning K-1 Women Junior. In the plastic division, Stalheim took first, with Nelson winning K-1 Master and Tina Wood winning K-1 Women. The biggest winner, however, was Dave Kovar of the Missouri Whitewater Association, who won the drawing for a Dagger kayak. "The whole thing worked out really well," says Dickert. "It's just our way of trying to get more people involved in slalom--especially people in the northern climates."

--For more information on next year's Pool Slalom National Championships, contact USCKT at (518) 523-1855.

--edb

The Illinois River of southwestern Oregon is a dream for experienced river runners. Renowned for its transparent water, wilderness setting and narrow, basalt gorge, it offers 35 miles of class III-IV rapids, punctuated by a Class V named the Green Wall for its mossy cliffs. As last spring's headline-making accident there shows, however, the Illinois is also notably fickle. It should be rafted only at flows between 1,000 and 2,500 cfs, during intermittent dry spells in early spring. At lower water, the river is too bumpy. Above 4,000 cfs, the Green Wall becomes a boat-eating Class VI. And as little as a half-inch of rain is all it takes to kick the river from one extreme to the other. Rafting the Illinois requires combining the right flow at the time of put-in with two days of acceptable weather.

The morning of Saturday, March 22, appeared to herald just such a window. The flow was steady at 2,000 cfs, and the previous evening's forecast called for intermittent light showers until "a major wet event" rolled in late on Sunday, about the time weekend paddlers would be off the river. It sounded damp but not dangerous--about as good as one can reasonably anticipate for March in Oregon's rain-drenched coastal mountains.

"I'm not the Michael Jordan of river rafting. I know what I can't do. When the river has been coming up a foot an hour all night, when it's gone from clear to chocolate milk, when there are no more eddies and there are 18-inch trees going down at 15 mph--it's just not a tough decision." --Illinois River survivor Gary Hough

But Pacific Northwest weather forecasts are notoriously unreliable--especially in the year of El Niņo. Before the weekend was over, an unpredicted storm would fill rain gauges with three to 10 inches of rain, swelling the river to 14,000 cfs. Three parties would attempt to run the river late enough that weekend not to have cleared the Green Wall by Saturday night. Two would suffer fatalities. The only party to emerge unscathed was captained by Gary Hough, 50, a theology teacher from Corvallis, Ore. With Hough were his son Daniel, 17, and family friends Mike Kalk, 17, and Katherine Meyer, 24.

Anyone who's met Hough (pronounced "Huff") knows why his party survived when others died. Like many experienced river runners, his sun-weathered face, rimmed by curly hair and a graying beard, radiates strength and competence. But spend five minutes with him and something more important emerges--an inner tranquility indicating that this man has no need to prove anything, to himself or anyone else. "We don't look at the river as an amusement park or an athletic field," he says. "There were days when I did, but I've come to see the river as a beautiful thing to be engaged on its own terms, not as a contest." He and his crew were also alert to signs the weekend wasn't shaping up as planned. Almost immediately after launching, the rain started in earnest and they joked about how the ensuing drenching could have been called a "shower." Later, Daniel--himself a veteran of many rivers--noted that the standing wave kicked up by a rapid rated as Class III "didn't look like any Class III wave I'd ever seen." After the party camped a few miles above the Green Wall, conditions continued to deteriorate. The river turned muddy, and they kept having to drag their raft higher and higher to keep it safe. By morning, the river had risen more than 10 feet, and there were three-foot standing waves where previously there had been flatwater.

It was at this point that Hough made the decision nobody else on the river that day made: his party would stay put and ration its food for however long it took for rescue to arrive or the river to drop. "I'm not the Michael Jordan of river rafting," he says, "And I know what I can't do. When the river has been coming up a foot an hour all night, when it's gone from clear to chocolate milk, when there are no more eddies and there are 18-inch trees going down at 15 mph--it's just not a tough decision." Hough also heard a peculiar hissing noise coming from the river. "Anybody who's paid attention to a flooding river will know it," he says. "There's the roar of the full-throated river, but on top of that, as if it's a layer you could pick up and remove, there's the hiss. That hiss basically says, 'Keep your distance.'" He never wavered from that decision, even when two other parties floated by--one, a fivesome on two rafts and a one-person cataraft, and another party of five in three kayaks and a cataraft. A few days' idleness and hunger wouldn't cause lasting harm--but the river could.

Downstream, the river was proving its power. The Green Wall kicked up a 12-foot standing wave that capsized at least two craft. Other rapids flipped the rest of the rafts, and re-dumped those who miraculously regained their craft below the Green Wall. In a two-mile maelstrom, one member of each party drowned, and everyone but the kayakers were beached--wet, shivering and stripped of equipment. One rafter suffered a dislocated shoulder, which he reset by the blindingly painful method of running full-tilt into a tree. Rescue wouldn't arrive for nearly 24 hours, after the kayakers paddled out to summon help.

Hough's party was unaware of the tragedy unfolding at the Green Wall. They spent a second night warm and dry, camped on a grassy meadow, with a substantial stock of food. Their biggest worry was for loved ones who didn't know they were safe. When rescue did arrive, midday Monday, they initially waved it off so the helicopter could search for people in greater need. "But I did ask them to call my wife," Hough remembers. "The guy they lowered on the cable wrote the number on his palm, and as they winched him back up I just prayed it was waterproof ink."

In part, Hough credits his life-saving caution to the writings of St. Francis of Assisi, the 12th Century monastic renowned for his love of nature. St. Francis viewed rivers as somewhat willful fellow creatures of his God, and once wrote a blessing asking a river for its forbearance. "Sister River," he wrote, "our Lord has made you strong and beautiful. Please treat us of your kindness." Hough likes to recite this blessing before each outing. "Rivers flood without permission," he says. "Our approach is to recognize when our sister is playing too rough."

--Richard Lovett